What the Lady Wants. Jennifer Crusie

Gio’s not with the mob.”

      “Your cousin Carlo cut off somebody’s finger. Who cares if they’re with the mob? They’re psychopaths.”

      She shifted in her chair. “They’re just volatile.”

      “Volatile.” Mitch snorted. “That’s cute. Come on, let’s go, but I’m warning you—you protect me from your homicidal relatives or my rate doubles.”

      She picked up her purse, contempt clear in her eyes. “Fine.”

      He watched her stand, pushing her weight up with her calves, which flexed roundly as she moved, and then he watched as she swiveled toward the door.

      If she’d just keep her mouth shut…

      She turned back to him, impatience making her face stern. “I don’t have all day, Mr. Peatwick, and you’re already wasting my time with this trip. Are you coming or not?”

      His fantasy evaporated, and reality returned, still sucking. Mitch sighed and followed her out the door.

      CHAPTER TWO

      HIS CAR LOOKED LIKE a two-toned aircraft carrier. Mae had known he wouldn’t be the Volvo type, but she’d expected something from the current decade. “This is your transportation?”

      “This is a classic.” He patted a massive metal side panel. “There aren’t many ’69 Catalinas on the road anymore.”

      “Yes, and there’s a reason for that.” Mae touched the paint. “What exactly do you call this color?”

      “Oxidized red. You getting in or not?”

      “Certainly.” Mae looked pointedly at the passenger door.

      He grinned at her. “It’s okay, it’s not locked. Go ahead and get in.”

      Mae shook her head in disbelief. “A collector’s dream like this one, and you don’t lock it. What are you thinking of?”

      “I have faith in my fellow man.” He ambled around to the driver’s side, so relaxed that Mae wasn’t sure how he stayed upright.

      “Then you’re going to love my cousin Carlo.” She tried to open the door but it stuck. “I think this is locked.”

      “Nah, just yank on it.” He opened his door and slumped into his seat while Mae tugged on the door with increasing force. Finally, he reached over and popped it open from the inside.

      “Thank you.” Mae slid into her seat. “I’ve seen living rooms smaller than this.”

      He surveyed his domain with obnoxious pride. “Makes you wonder why they invented bucket seats, doesn’t it?”

      Mae bounced a little on the rock-hard seat. “No.”

      He turned the key in the ignition. “You snotty rich people are all alike. Can’t appreciate the simple things in life.”

      “I am not rich.” Mae gazed at the vast interior of the car. “And I wouldn’t call this simple.”

      “You’re not rich?”

      “No.” Mae tugged at the seat belt, trying to get it across her lap. “I had a trust fund once, but it died. When the inheritance clears, I will be rich, but until then, I just cleaned out my checking account for you.” She gave up tugging and turned to him in exasperation. “Mr. Peatwick, I don’t think this seat belt works.”

      He leaned across her to yank on the belt himself, and she breathed in the scent of soap from his hair. He yanked on the belt again, rocking slightly against her, and she stopped breathing for a moment in the sudden flush of heat she felt.

      This was not good.

      He yanked again, and the belt unspooled, and he leaned back into his seat and clicked it in place for her. “There. Just like one of those fancy new cars, only better.”

      Mae brought her mind back to where it belonged: away from Mitchell Peatwick.

      He pulled out into the street, and the rear of the car bounced as the wheels hit the pavement. “Where exactly does Gio live?”

      Mae told him and then watched him drive, absentmindedly answering his questions about Armand and steering him back to the diary whenever he drifted too far afield. His hands were loose on the wheel, large and supple, and his fingers slid over it when he turned a corner. She’d never been a hand freak before, but then, she’d never met Mitch Peatwick before. He’s dumb, she told herself, and he’s macho, and he’s going to be another one of those let-me-take-care-of-everything guys who’s just out for himself. There was a reason she’d given up men, and Mitchell Peatwick was a perfect example of it. She’d paid him to find the diary, but he wanted to see Gio, so of course they were going to see Gio. Whatever you want, Miss Sullivan. Right. As long as she wanted what he wanted.

      She glared at him.

      He stopped in the middle of one of his questions. “What? What did I say?”

      “Nothing,” Mae snapped. “Absolutely nothing.”

      MITCH LEARNED only one thing on the drive over to Gio Donatello’s place: Mae Sullivan wanted that diary. He’d tried half a dozen times to bring up unhappy business partners, disgruntled ex-girlfriends, irate husbands, anyone who might possibly have a reason to give an old man a heart attack, but she dismissed his suggestions every time and returned to the diary. Stubborn beyond belief, that was Mae Sullivan. She would be pure screaming hell to live with, no matter how good she smelled or how soft she was when you were trying to put a seat belt around her in a purely professional capacity. Of course, he was stubborn, too, but that was different. You had to be stubborn if you were a private eye. Otherwise, you starved.

      He wondered if her Uncle Gio was as stubborn. Probably more so if the rumors were true. Even so, he wanted to see Gio first. More important, he wanted Gio to see his open, honest, Boy Scout face so Gio wouldn’t get annoyed with him and kill him.

      His caution grew as they were waved through the heavy gates of the Donatello estate by a large, scowling man with a bulge under his jacket, and then ushered through the massive door of the sandstone mansion by another large, scowling man with a bulge under his jacket and finally led through cream-and-gold hallways to Gio’s office by a small, scowling maid. She had no bulges anywhere, but Mitch was willing to bet she was still lethal.

      The first thing he saw as he went through the door was a huge, vivid painting of the biblical Judith, darkly beautiful and triumphant, holding up the severed head of her enemy, Holofernes. He cocked his head at Mae and said, “Relative of yours?” She rolled her eyes at him and took his arm to turn him toward the massive desk in front of the wall of windows to his right.

      And then he was face-to-face with Gio Donatello, diminutive and deadly, and his giant grandson, Carlo, the finger chopper.

      Gio barely spared Mitch a glance. He shot out from behind the desk and swept his niece into his arms, shouting her name and calling to his grandson to back him up on how beautiful she was, how healthy she looked, how long it had been since she’d seen them—three whole days.

      Meanwhile, Carlo Donatello stood like a god in the sunlight and eviscerated Mitch with his eyes.

      “Uncle Gio, I want you to meet Mitchell Peatwick,” Mae said, and Gio turned his little obsidian eyes on Mitch. The air in the room grew colder and heavier.

      “Who’s he?” Gio’s voice was like a stiletto.

      Mae patted her uncle’s arm. “It’s all right. I’m not dating him. He’s a private detective I’ve hired.”

      The temperature went up a few degrees, Carlo abandoned Mitch to look at Mae with all the helpless longing of a science major for a cheerleader, and Gio tightened his arm around Mae’s shoulders. “Mae, baby, you don’t need a P.I. when you’ve got us to take care of you. You want something found out? Carlo will find out for you.” He turned back to